


Phantoms

by vondrostes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Steve/Natasha/Sam/Bucky, Multi, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vondrostes/pseuds/vondrostes
Summary: The Man Formerly Known As The Winter Soldier copes with the aftermath of his time spent as one of Hydra's weapons; Steve does his best to help him come back to himself.





	Phantoms

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter for more writing goodies: @vondrostes (personal) & @TerranAlleen (writing updates)

It was two months before the Winter Soldier showed up on Steve’s doorstep; even longer before he finally graduated from solitary confinement and armed escorts somewhere beneath Avengers Tower and moved into a cozy little penthouse apartment in the North Building with 24/7 video surveillance. His first trip on the outside had been a chaperoned visit to the hospital where Peggy was slowly wasting away. He stood still as a statue while she cried, and eventually found himself being escorted out when she slipped into a vivid hallucinatory memory that had apparently been triggered by his presence. He hadn’t said a word to her.

Steve and Natasha had both been called out of the country when it came time to remove the metal arm Hydra had equipped the Winter Soldier with before they’d unleashed him on their myriad enemies. Steve had initially protested the procedure when it was first suggested, but the general consensus between the rest of the Avengers and the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D. had been that the arm’s capabilities made the Winter Soldier far too dangerous for them in good conscience to leave it be. Which is why Natasha had been tasked with distracting Steve with a mission so the procedure could be performed during his absence. The Winter Soldier fractured three bones in Sam’s hand during the surgery. That was with his flesh and bone arm. While under general anesthesia.

No one had ever seen Steve as angry as he was when he came back and found out what they’d done.

Both sides turned out to be right in the end. Leaving the prosthetic arm presented a threat too big to risk when it came to the Winter Soldier’s fragile mental state. On the other hand, the highly traumatizing surgical procedure and painful recovery had left him in worse shape than ever.

Steve had demanded six months leave as a result and promptly packed his bags and moved into the penthouse, leaving Sam and Natasha in the dust.

The three of them had started their thing almost immediately after Fury left and Natasha went into self-imposed exile, and Steve had taken the opportunity to move in with Sam at the time. Natasha needed her own space, and both of them respected that. So when Steve up and left without so much as an explanation, well—it put a strain on things, even if the other two understood implicitly why he’d done it.

So none of them were talking to each other at the moment. Natasha wasn’t even on the same continent anymore; she’d gone off to Australia with Clint to do who knows what. Sam was working with Stark on enhancing the Falcon suit’s design, something Steve might have suffered through when the two were on better terms, but with the Winter Soldier in the picture….

It had been three weeks since Steve had moved into the penthouse. The Winter Soldier had hardly said more than ten words that whole time, but Steve didn’t want to push.

Steve was afraid to look at him too closely. With the hair trimmed short and kept tidy, it was more or less the same face he remembered from the last time he’d seen Bucky. But he knew if he dug too deep, he’d find the Winter Soldier hidden beneath that familiar façade.

Numerous medical professionals had already informed Steve that it was foolish to even hope that the Winter Soldier would regain even half of the memories he had lost. They’d told Steve that right now his personality was malleable, that it would take years for him to regain standard levels of social functionality. They said that it might be some time before he could easily communicate with anything more than short clipped sentences and the fragmented Russian that spilled from his mouth while he dreamed. They said the nightmares might never stop. That he was a flight risk. A suicide risk. A security risk.

Steve didn’t care what they said.

He didn’t care, because on nights like these where it was quiet and dark and not even the buzz of Manhattan could reach them on the 55th story, he could hear the Winter Soldier sobbing in his sleep from the bedroom just down the hall. Usually, it would stop within the hour. One hour where Steve lay wide awake in his bed just listening to the broken shell of his former friend clawing his way out of layers of trauma, unable to do anything but listen until it stopped.

Tonight, it didn’t stop.

Steve listened as the sobs ratcheted up in intensity, until finally he couldn’t take anymore. He wrestled the sheets off and stormed out of his bedroom, nearly pulling the door off its hinges when he barged into the room at the end of the hall.

Bucky wasn’t there. Neither was the Winter Soldier. It pained Steve that he had to make the distinction, but he’d found it necessary after the last five months.

There was a sliver of light under the bathroom door. Steve discreetly tried the handle to find it locked. He waited another moment but the sobbing didn’t stop. The sound yanked at his lungs, tying his diaphragm in knots till it became hard to breathe from the involuntary shared grief.

“Buck?” he said hesitantly, listening as the crying suddenly faded. “Buck, you want to unlock the door?”

Silence. Then, “No.” The voice from inside the bathroom was small and hoarse.

“You’re not hurt, are you?”

“’M fine.”

Steve could hear the bath start and he heaved out a sigh. “I’m going to make us some hot chocolate for when you’re done in there, okay?” he said a little louder, so that he knew he’d be heard over the sound of the water, but there was no reply.

On the other side of the door, the Winter Soldier was sitting crouched on the sapphire blue tile of the extravagant walk-in shower, letting jets of hot water sear his skin from ten different angles. The heat burned but it was the only thing that drowned out the near omnipresent ache in his left arm and shoulder. The doctors had tried an assortment of numbing creams and ointments designed to loosen the gnarled malformation of scar tissue, but so far nothing they’d given him helped with the phantom pains.

When he emerged from the steam-filled bathroom with nothing on but a ratty pair of Steve’s old running sweats slung around his hips, the Winter Soldier was pleased to find that Steve had indeed left his post. He could hear the sound of mugs clanking in the kitchen from the doorway, and he paused there for a moment just to listen to the soundtrack of domesticity.

“Bucky?” Steve’s head popped around the corner, a painfully optimistic smile plastered onto his face. “You thirsty?”

The Winter Soldier gave a non-committal jerk of the head and slowly walked forward, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the glaring absence on his left. Steve, to his credit, never seemed to dance around the fact that he was missing an arm, like his bodyguards had, but he never drew any undue attention to it either.

In a lot of ways, Steve was perfect. Now if only he would just stop trying to _fix_ everything.

“Buck?”

“Coming.”

The hardwood floors were pleasantly cool on the Winter Soldier’s bare feet. Nowadays, he didn’t wear shoes if he could help it. Or clothes. He found it confining and uncomfortable, and the doctors had explained that hypersensitivity was to be expected.

Steve pushed a warm mug into his hands when he entered the kitchen, and gently guided him down into one of the chairs around the dining room table.

“Do you want me to call Dr. Martinez?”

The Winter Soldier shook his head. “Appointment in the morning,” he mumbled, the words feeling sluggish on his tongue now that he was coming down from the panic attack. He took a cautious sip of the hot chocolate in the mug and then quickly downed half the cup once the rich taste of chocolate registered. It had been a long time since he’d had a cup of hot chocolate.

“Okay.” Steve watched him over the rim of his own mug. “Do you want some more?”

“Tired.”

Something must have happened—he must have zoned out for a minute—because suddenly Steve was kneeling at his side looking up at him with evident concern, saying “Bucky?” over and over and over.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Not looking altogether reassured, Steve stood up and took a step back to give him some space. It wasn’t the first time he’d disassociated, certainly wouldn’t be the last, but Steve always seemed just as alarmed by the phenomenon as he had been the first time he’d seen it happen.

“Bucky, you know—” Steve’s mouth closed abruptly, lips twisting down into a grimace. "Why do you always do that?" he asked

“Do what?” the Winter Soldier replied reflexively.

“That—” Steve made a vague gesture towards his own face. “Whenever I say your name.”

“That’s not—I’m not…him,” the Winter Soldier finished pitifully. “I don’t think I can ever be him again.” _No matter how much you want me to._ The words hung unspoken in the air between them.

“What should I call you then?” Steve asked cautiously.

A pause. Then, “I don’t know.”

Steve wanted to ask if they’d given him a name when he was still with Hydra, if he’d had any sort of identity other than the Winter Soldier in all the years he’d been their living weapon. He knew he didn’t want to hear the answer to that, so he didn’t ask.

Instead, he found himself asking without even thinking, “Is it okay if I call you James?”

“James.” The name felt awkward on his lips, but the nagging tug at the back of his mind pulling at buried memories didn’t accompany the sound. He gave an infinitesimal nod of the head, and watched as Steve’s face lit up with a broad smile.

It was always so easy to make Steve happy, whether by drinking a glass of warm hot chocolate, or letting him feel like he’d accomplished something huge just by giving someone a name. Even if they both knew that he wasn’t Bucky, or even the same James Buchanan that Steve had known back when they were kids, he could give Steve this much.

And maybe—just maybe—he was tired of being the Winter Soldier too.


End file.
